


Heaven Shall Make Amends

by theselittlethings



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Colonial America, Eventual Smut, Exorcisms, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Historical Inaccuracy, Hux is Not Nice, Loss of Virginity, New England, On Hiatus, POV Ben Solo, Period-Typical Corporal Punishment, Possession, References to Hellfire & Damnation, Salem Witch Trials, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Snoke Being a Dick, Someone Gets Hanged, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, They Are LITERALLY Puritans, Witchcraft, and I mean it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theselittlethings/pseuds/theselittlethings
Summary: A group of young women come down with a mysterious illness as winter turns to spring in Salem Village in 1692. Suspicions of witchcraft begin to run rampant in the town as the doctor continues to credit natural causes -- but his apprentice Ben Solo may know more than it seems.AND/ORSalem Witch Trials AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Excited to embark on another adventure with you and hope you will enjoy it too. Thank you to my readers & Reylo Twitter mutuals for encouraging me to develop this concept and to turn it into an actual story. Please note that the witchcraft elements in the story are based on 17th-18th century stereotypes and do not reflect actual Wicca or paganism. Story is fully outlined and will be updated as it is completed. Any and all feedback, comments, and kudos are appreciated and add ten years to my life. Here we go :)

~

“For a close, remember this, that your life is short,  
your duties many, your assistance great, and your reward sure;  
therefore, faint not, hold on and hold up, in ways of well-doing,  
and heaven shall make amends for all.”

Thomas Brooks (1652)  
_Precious Remedies Against Satan’s Devices_

~

The afternoon air is crisp in January, when the soil hardens to icy cakes and the deepened wheel treads in the dirt roads become as dangerous to carriages as jagged stones. Ben Solo turns up the collar of his dark woolen coat with his unoccupied hand, one wing at a time to cover his neck, grimacing as a breeze withers through the barren oak trees to bite the skin of his reddened cheeks. He walks the path north towards Unkar Plutt’s home, only spotting one neighbor outside chopping wood along the way. The brown weathered clapboards of Plutt’s plain, square, two-story house look almost vibrant against the winter’s gray sky as twists of dark smoke from the chimney unfurl & fade above the treeline.

Ben slows his steps entering Plutt’s tract of land. This dwelling is set closer to the road than others along the pathway towards his own home that sits on the upper edges of Goodman Phasma’s partitioned acreage. He glances up to the empty window facing the road and reminds himself that there is nothing he desires to see up there as he follows the winding trail around the foundation towards the entrance. Several yards of trodden ground separate the house from the double-stalled stable, where Plutt’s horse snorts and shakes his snout in greeting beneath his blanket. The stone storage shed beside the stable has its door flung open and Ben pauses as he hears rummaging within it, bringing his hand up to adjust his collar when another breeze whispers through to tumble some dead leaves over the ground. They crinkle and scatter, their sounds loud in Ben’s ears when he notices Plutt’s snow-covered field littered with footprints — turning back to face the shed’s open door when he hears something topple & crash inside.

“Ah!” A gruff voice exclaims amongst the thumps of objects being lifted hastily from the floor.

Ben approaches the shed upon recognizing Plutt’s voice, stopping in place when the stocky man exits, wiping his hands with the hems of his cloak. Plutt’s brimmed hat shadows the heavy lines of his face as he shakes his head, his boxy features pursed by frustration, until he looks up to meet Ben’s eyes. Some bruising remains around the edges of the bandage still affixed to his wide nose and the blotches move up in time with the corners of his thin lips.

“Pray pardon me, Goodman Solo, didn’t see yeh there,” Plutt greets with a grin. “Out here long?”

“Just arrived.” Ben peers behind Plutt’s shoulder and gestures to the open storage door. “Did you need —”

“Nay, don’t mind my fuss,” Plutt insists as he steps back to look into the shed a moment before shrugging to Ben. “One of the consequences of an abundant harvest. Less space to move about.”

Ben nods as he recalls how Plutt’s lands thrived under his care despite only arriving last spring. The tracts never yielded quite so much growth for any previous tenant, even having his daughters bring flowers for all the children at a summer gathering in the square. This solidified Plutt’s position as an intriguing new feature of Salem Village after coming to the Colony by way of London with his three recently-adopted orphan daughters in tow. He had been turning a steady income on his own, in addition to having the young women work as seamstresses for the widowed men & elderly women in town.

Plutt interrupts Ben’s response when he opens his mouth to speak, pointing to his healing nose.

“Send word to yer uncle that I’ll pay him by month’s end. Can head right inside.” Plutt drops his cloak from his hands and waves to his home’s front entrance, prompting Ben to check the closed door as Plutt continues to speak. “No need to inquire before going, yer a man of good faith. Know yer just being proper.”

Ben clears his throat and tips his hat before moving. “Straight away.”

Plutt heads back inside his storage and the horse shakes its head again with a huff, prompting Ben to enter the modest home, stamping moisture and slush from his boots as he closes the door behind him. His cheeks flush from the fire’s heat after exposure to the cold, and he re-settles his gloved fingers along the spine of the Bible underneath his occupied arm. Ben hesitates a moment before turning to face the sitting room, observing its long wooden table and arched stone hearth along the wall. His eyes flicker down to the door’s handle when he thinks of Plutt walking down the aisle towards his preferred seat in the men’s pews every Sabbath, his three daughters trailing behind him before they break to sit with the women — only a few rows in front of Ben’s perch by the aisle — where he can see her sit on the edge of her pew, not hiding the small lock of hair that falls from the bottom of her white coif —

“How do you fare, Goodman Solo?”

Her gentle voice is steady in the quiet room and Ben turns to see her, sitting alone with his mother’s repaired petticoat resting on the table in front of her. Ben swallows when he meets the gaze of Plutt’s daughter Rey, the young woman staring back with bright eyes above a smattering of winter-faded freckles. A thin tendril of brown hair falls from her coif to frame her face, her pale pink lips curled up with a polite smile. He pushes down the small hiccup he feels in his chest upon seeing her here, as he had not expected to be meeting with her alone.

“Faring well, Miss Plutt,” Ben replies, glancing at the unoccupied seats beside her. A half-darned pair of stockings hang over one of the backs. “Your sisters rest upstairs?”

“Gone to Salem Town for strings, fabrics,” she corrects, smoothing out a crease from the green folded petticoat. “And they’re sisters. Not mine.”

Ben nods even though he already knows, piecing together small bits of background from second-hand stories during rounds with Luke, told while observing his uncle tend to the Village’s ill & infirmed with the expectation of one day carrying on the practice. (He considered perhaps crossing the Atlantic to receive formal training eventually, but Ben hasn’t had the inspiration or financial ability to muse that far ahead yet.) He has spoken very few words to the young woman herself, only meeting Rey’s eyes briefly every Sabbath when he nods to Plutt as he passes. Or when coming to bring & retrieve his household’s orders, but always with someone sitting beside her. And despite Ben’s thoughts often returning to the way her apron’s tails rest and trail down her back & further when watching her walk the other direction, there is much about her he does not know. He recalls seeing her sitting alone by the candlelight in the house’s second story window facing the road and cringes at the thought of appearing too eager when he speaks, sidestepping the instinct to apologize for his error.

“Paige and Rose are still your sisters, all of you living under your father’s roof.” Ben doesn’t mean to look towards the ceiling when he says it. “Sisters under the eyes of the Lord.”

“My father’s roof,” Rey repeats, her voice curling low with a sharp edge. She pats the petticoat once more and folds her hands on her lap below the table, biting her shined bottom lip. “Has not been my father even two years yet.”

Ben isn’t sure what sort of response he anticipated, but it wasn’t quite that; patients often find comfort & encouragement in references to Divine approval. He clears his throat and unbuttons the top of his coat, the collar wilting open when the room feels warm beneath the wool.

“You’ve been graced by being given a family, even if not long ago.” 

“Could say that…” Rey pauses as her voice trails off. She visibly leans in her seat and tilts her head, furrowing her brows as she studies the object held under Ben’s arm.

He looks down at his Bible and back to her eyes twice before realizing she waits for an explanation. “Men’s study after bringing that home.”

“You always take your Bible to town?” Rey raises an eyebrow and straightens up in the chair.

Ben shifts his jaw, her pointed tone dropping in his ears. “Not always. Arrived for group and time was changed.” She blinks and he turns away to watch the covered pot heating in the hearth’s flames. “Granted enough time to retrieve my mother’s garment and return to the Village.”

“Ah,” Rey replies plainly, almost swallowing the sound.

Ben does not face her when he hears her come to a stand, the chair’s legs scratching short along the wooden floor as his unoccupied hand darts away to hide behind his back. There’s a gentle sweep of fabric grazing the table when Ben tries to fill the silence between them, his pulse fluttering with the thumps of her gentle footsteps.

“The women’s group meets thrice weekly,” he offers, biting his cheek to remind himself to keep his eyes turned away. “Run by the wives, with a couple girls to mind the children, if you don’t attend already —”

“Your suggestion is noted, your intentions kind, but I fear I cannot attend.”

Her voice is closer to his ear than expected, the sound soft and graceful like her nimble gait as she silently followed her sisters with her basket of flowers in the square. Ben turns and works to pale the flush filling his cheeks when he sees Rey standing closely beside him, the hearth’s fire flickering an orange glow over her skin. Her eyes appear half-closed as she looks down at the petticoat draped in her arms, her mouth falling open as she sighs.

He plans his words before speaking them aloud, fearing he may stammer otherwise. “Your presence would surely be welcomed —”

“I cannot read.”

Ben raises his eyebrows and looks down to her eyelashes as she adjusts her hold on the fabric before she glances up to meet his gaze. There’s a childlike quality in her admission that makes her seem younger than her nineteen years, as if it’s a small seed of shame that burrows within her in this place where all boys and girls are taught to read the Lord’s Word from a very young age. Ben presses his mouth into a line when Rey takes a step closer, her arms only a few inches from his chest when she continues,

“Would you teach me, Goodman Solo?”

She gestures to his Bible and Ben brings his hand up to take down one more button, his ribs feeling smaller when her words coast in a low whisper between them. There’s something in the way she says it that uneases something inside him, in a curious rather than displeasurable way — a way that pushes Ben to remind himself that his mother has recently intended him to another, even if it was done so without his knowledge or blessing.

“Miss —”

“Rey.”

There’s a beat. “Rey, I would need to ask your father’s permission —”

“My sisters already know how.”

She raises a hand to her head, drawing her coif back slightly to expose the beginning edges of her hairline before dragging her fingertips along it as if to scratch an itch. It’s a small & swift movement and Ben knows it’s the careless gesture of a woman unaware of local customs, but that unsettled part inside wants it to be intended for him.

“I cannot undermine your father’s —”

“Goodman Solo —”

“Ben.” It slips from his tongue before he can remember to stop.

“Ben,” she repeats, eyeing his collar as she drops her hand and leaves her coif slightly askew.

This time he takes a step back and shuffles the book in his hand to redirect his attention, looking up to see Rey with her head turned to stare into the fire. She bites her bottom lip again before it settles with a pout in her profile as if she does not observe the cooking pot but instead something behind it. Ben swallows as he watches the plane of her neck, dipping to disappear beneath the loose laces of her shift, and his focus remains there even when her next words are spoken in a hushed, unfurling tone.

“I can feel you when you look up at my window.”

All that he intended to say comes to swell & stop in his throat, the tightness in his chest dropping to his stomach with a rush trailing lower — it comes out as a nervous tapping of one of his feet, which he quickly silences when she steps in again with the petticoat held out to him. He stands still to let her close the distance between them, his thoughts reeling with her recognition even though he’s not entirely sure what she means. Ben looks down to her face when she tilts her chin up to him expectantly, shifting his jaw once more when she drapes the green fabric over his bent arm.

“I can feel the way you look at me, Ben.”

His heart drops and his breeches feel strange against his skin beneath his coat when she lets her fingertips dawdle on the woollen fabric of his jacket’s sleeves for just long enough for Ben to wonder whether it’s intentional. His boots stay rooted in place, glancing down to her hand when he’s surprised to hear his own voice stall,

“Your father —”

“Yer father’s right here!”

Plutt grunts and the door’s handle hits the wall, his boots thudding hard as Rey’s face pales when she drops her hands. She pauses as if frozen in place, her eyes widening when she leans to glance behind Ben’s frame towards the entryway as Plutt crosses the small square room. He stops to loom behind her with a huff, gripping Rey’s shoulder as he guides her to stagger back a few steps.

“— And don’t think I won’t spare yeh the birch if I catch yeh being indecent again!” Plutt growls, shoving her away and clicking his tongue. “‘Specially with an honorable man… an’ loyal customer.”

A glare flashes over Rey’s features as she tidies her coif, bringing her hair to hide beneath the cap before smoothing down her apron. Despite the pulse of exhilaration Ben felt when she said she knew he’s looked up to her window, he’s relieved that the moment was broken between them before he ran out of things to say. He would not want to risk appearing improper and quickly asks himself why that term even crossed his mind —

Plutt presses the conversation further. “Received word of yer engagement the other day, a fine match. Did well for yerself, landing one of the merchant’s girls. Gwen, aye?”

Ben glances over to see Rey staring at the floor and refolds the petticoat over his arm into a smaller pack to carry home.

“I had little to do with the arrangement,” Ben replies, offering a flat chuckle as an afterthought. It still seems strange to call his intended by her given name, after so many younger years spent muttering _Miss Phasma_ when one of her brothers made snide comments about Ben’s father falling through the ice while fur trapping. He grew respectable enough for her hand after years of the Massachusetts Bay Colony resettling and shifting all around them, gaining a middling reputation for his intellect  & decorum under his uncle’s tutelage. An appropriate match, a decent woman to be wed to the eventual Village doctor, but the phrases feel strange even in his own thoughts.

“Whether married happily or not, yeh’ll get that tract all to yer own,” Plutt offers with a grin. “A relief to yer old mum I’m sure.”

Ben nods gravely, recalling his mother’s insistence that they own the land they’ve always borrowed to secure their position before her inevitable passing. “She does what she sees best fit.”

“When’s the wedding?” Plutt inquires, taking a step to stand beside Ben.

“Have no date yet.”

“May yer union be blessed, Goodman Solo,” Plutt congratulates a tad too loudly, punctuating his well wishes with a hearty slap on Ben’s back. “An’ don’t mind my Rey, she’s a precocious girl, but an excellent worker. She’s brought our home much happiness and good fortune.”

Ben’s eyes dart back to see Rey’s back as she paces to the stairs, her apron strings rounding over the soft shape beneath her shift as the loose ends softly bounce with her steps. She pauses at the landing, settling her hand on the railing as she rests her foot on the first stair.

Plutt keeps speaking even though Ben does not meet his gaze. “But not without some mischief, truth be told, did Skywalker tell yeh about this? Think yeh were outta the room when sharing the tale.”

Ben turns back to see Plutt pointing to the bandage on his nose and shakes his head, not sure he actually heard all of what Plutt said. His attention meanders back to the stairs, where Rey has ascended one more and tightens her grip on the railing with an empty expression when Plutt continues,

“She’s a small girl, but with a fiery spirit, Solo. Tried knockin’ me out when receiving her punishment for laughing during the service. Loud enough the whole Meeting-House could hear!” Rey slouches just slightly but stands still, and Ben shakes his head before looking into Plutt’s doughy face as the man complains, “Told ‘er the switch hurts far less than the eternal fires of judgment, but if it didn’t hurt then she wouldn’t pay it any mind.”

Ben blinks, his insides twisting with the uncertainty of what to say, only able to picture Rey’s delicate features fixed into a hardened snarl as she pushed back against the obsequious lump before him. Plutt’s finger waggles at his nose again and he laughs heartily, but Ben doesn’t see what’s funny.

“She popped me good though, aye?”

He watches Rey sigh and silently climb the stairs, the bottom hem of her yellow petticoat trailing up behind her until she disappears from the room. Ben remembers to release an outward breath and tries to maintain his neutral bedside expression when he nods affirmatively.

“That she did.” Ben coughs and moves the bundled cloth underneath his arm to tip his dark wide-brimmed hat. “Best I be going. Fare thee well.”

…

…

The sky darkens into deeper shades of gray as Ben walks the path north after the men’s study, this time hosted by the blacksmith’s apprentice Finn in a meeting room behind their forge. The space was stuffy despite keeping the entryway open for flow and Ben is relieved when he sees his breath steam from his lips in the crisp chilled air. He waves on Poe Dameron when he slows his cart beside Ben to offer him a ride further up the road, seeking to feel the surge of his body working to keep him warm beneath the layers of his doublet. Ben watches the wooden wheels of Dameron’s cart bobble & shudder over the pockmarked dirt road as the man and his horse eventually disappear from view.

The way home is solitary yet peaceful — The road is deserted and the leafless barren oaks frame first stars like organic unclosed grids. They gleam dimly as evening turns to night, and the candle-lit halos from the houses’ windows make it seem as if the whole landscape holds its breath. A handful of dwellings incidentally illuminate Ben’s footsteps along the path, but he mostly travels in a dark stillness with the rising half moon providing just enough light for him to chart his way. He moves the Bible beneath his other arm and darts a gloved hand between the buttons of his coat, warming up his fingertips beneath the wool.

Leaves crunch below his boots as he slows his steps approaching Plutt’s house, discerning a soft glow cast against the branches close to the second story window that faces the road. He draws closer with hesitant steps, swallowing when he sees that the first floor is cast in shadow and the stables are empty. Ben watches the steam of his breath expand & fade into the air, coming to stop before seeing the scene in full, his feet weighted by an uncertainty tempered by his curiosity. Something thrums within him like the thrill of a shared secret, prodding him to trudge forward to unwrap it further with his eyes cast to the ground as a reminder to avoid temptation…

Yet it does not feel strange or wrong when he halts to look up towards the small candle-lit window, despite expecting that it would. He pauses to watch a woman’s silhouette stir across the ceiling, pressing his lips together when he sees Rey come into view. She stands in a white linen shift, her petticoat presumably laid away for sleep, resting her fingertips on the bottom of the wooden frame with her hair half-fallen from her coif. Her lips part slightly beneath raised eyebrows, as if interrupted mid-sentence or in the midst of her evening routine, and Ben rushes to take in this perfect image of her partially-revealed form before she remembers to turn away.

He drops his hand from his coat and rests it by his side, suddenly aware of how close the leather of his gloves feels to his skin along the spine of the book in his grip. But she remains still, her eyes trained on his as he gazes up towards her. His stomach feels tight when he can spot the small movements of her chest as it rises & falls with her breaths. And despite neither one of them saying a word he can see in her face that she bids him not to go, and he’s not sure why he knows to stay a moment longer. He clears his throat and glances both ways down the road to see that he remains alone, turning back up to offer some greeting when the words jump back into his throat.

_Will you teach me?_

A halt in his breath signals his body as he realizes her voice sounds too close, as if she whispers directly in his ear instead of standing several yards away. He blinks twice, unsure if he truly heard the words as he glances down to his Bible only to hear them again.

_Will you, Ben?_

He furrows his brows and his tongue darts over his lips, making them cold as they dry in the nighttime air. The question looms unanswered between them and a tension creeps within his ribs that insists there’s something out of place — something unsettling yet not unwelcoming that pulls in his gut to press the line further. And though he does not know how to answer in the same manner she spoke, Ben finds himself nodding his head instead, his pulse fluttering when her lips turn up in a small smile,

_May His light guide your way home._

And as Ben lays on his back on his roll by the hearth (his mother & uncle’s snores keeping him awake) he pictures Rey’s cheeks flushing as he draws them close to his lips, her hair falling to her shoulders when he gently slides her cap from her head. The scene never goes any further, despite that steady thrum of both knowledge & ignorance exciting something in his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) Big thank you to my betas [elemie89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elemie89), [weddersins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weddersins), and [savebensolo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savebensolo).
> 
> Come say hi on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/theselittlefics) and [Tumblr](http://littlethingsfic.tumblr.com) <3


	2. Chapter 2

Ben meets Rey’s eyes again when she follows her sisters up the aisle to their pew next Sabbath, glancing up from the floor with her hands behind her back. All her hair stays in place beneath her coif and it’s easy to pretend that she’s somebody else in the sea of white & gray caps on the women’s side of the Meeting-House. She glances over her shoulder during a pause in the services as the Reverend Hux shuffles papers on the pulpit before beginning his sermon, meeting Ben’s eyes for a moment before she looks down to the closed Bible on her lap. He swears he sees the same blush on the apples of her cheeks that he feels spread on his own, but flips a page of the open text in his hands to set it out of his mind instead. Ben spots the back of Miss Phasma’s head easily in the middle of the second row, a few inches taller than the women flanking her on either side. He tries to imagine her returning his gaze with the same flicker he sees in Rey’s expression, but is unable to picture her doing anything but recoiling at his touch.

Phasma’s youthful sneer from years prior mars Ben’s mental image of his betrothed, made more gnarled by her consistent dismissals when he calls at their manor after rounds in the Village. More days pass and Rey remains in Ben’s errant thoughts when he nods, blankly listening to Luke ask patients about appetites & sleep patterns, chiming in to ask about additional symptoms when prompted with a cleared throat or step on his toes. He keeps returning to the night they spoke as Rey stood in her window, unsure what else to call it despite no words being voiced aloud between them. He isn’t sure why he remains more intrigued than unsettled, why he’s curious instead of uneasy when he recalls her implying she can feel a certain intent behind his gaze.

The memory is most vivid in the confused minutes before falling asleep, when he feels his body sink into his bedroll with the weight of impending slumber — He imagines her standing close, half-dressed in her shift with her fingertips resting on his sleeve, closing her eyes when he leans in and catches strands of her loose hair on his lips when she tells him to taste her skin. He abides despite the suggestion feeling like something outside of himself, despite knowing he should be wary. The vision fades to darkness when he flicks his tongue over her neck, hearing her sigh softly as her hand tightens against his arm.

…

…

Two weeks pass and it is already February. Luke waits by the gate at the end of the path as Ben stands at the entryway of Miss Phasma’s manor, shifting his weight with his hands behind his back as he anticipates another dismissal. The door cracks open and their domestic worker Kaydel Ko Connix peeks outside to inform Ben that his request for supper has been denied again.

“Is there a better time for me to —”

Kaydel shakes her head and closes the door before providing another date or even a simple explanation. Ben hesitates several seconds before turning on his heels to leave, pausing halfway down the path to look up at the candlelight peeking through the shutters of the second story windows. He sighs as he turns back to see Luke flipping a page of his small notebook with a raised eyebrow, staying in place as Ben approaches.

Luke does not look up to meet Ben’s eyes as he strokes his short yet untamed beard, speaking into the book instead. “Refuse you again?”

Ben nods to his gloved hands as he latches the gate closed and mutters his response. “Aye.”

“Most unfortunate.” Luke’s voice is too plain for Ben to tell if his words are meant to be soothing or sarcastic, snapping his little book closed and placing it back in the pocket on his belt. “How many is that now?”

“Five.” Ben walks past Luke, holding down the brim of his hat as he watches his feet move over the trodden ground. He hears his uncle shuffle to follow, clearing his throat before he glances over his shoulder. “I suppose Goodwife Phasma did not consult with her daughter before agreeing to the arrangement either?”

Luke tilts his head with a shrug, coming up next to Ben and wrapping his arms under his cloak. “Sure you’ll both warm up to the promise of a happy union together before your wedding day.”

Ben huffs to glare back at the manor instead of at his uncle and his mirthful chuckle, as if his engagement is an amusing trifle rather than his actual future. The sun dips towards the horizon with the approaching evening, casting the maple trees into long shadows that cut across the open fields. Ben spots a slight figure dart away from the back of the estate and sprint into the woods that border the acreage. He concludes the woman is too short to be Miss Phasma herself and doesn’t pay it any mind as they wind down the path towards the road leading back to the Village square.

These moments in between destinations with Luke are constantly filled with strange silences, as if both of them are being compelled to endure the other, and this outing is no different. Pine needles skitter across road and collect in the hooved tracks pressed into the dirt, following the direction of a cool breeze that chatters through Ben’s teeth.

“Early enough to attend the men’s study this evening,” Ben announces, looking up to see the deep blue tones of approaching nightfall spill behind the jagged branches framing their way.

“Not early enough to fetch your Bible.” Luke kicks away a pebble in his path.

“Blacksmith’s shop. Finn should have one to borrow.”

“Looking for more verses to support the Reverend’s claims of impending damnation?” Luke asks with a smirk both across his face and in his tone.

Ben presses his lips together and chooses not to respond directly. “Cannot speak for what is planned for tonight’s discussion.”

“But that is the great Reverend Hux’s newest tale, yes?” Luke continues pointedly. “That we should fear Satan’s temptations in this very Village as well?”

Ben furrows his brows and brings his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose in a physical attempt to quiet his growing frustration. “Frequently he reminds the congregation that our actions are subject to Divine Judgment —”

“Ah, the fear of eternal hellfire to keep the town in his hand,” Luke snorts and spits on the ground. “Sweeps into Salem only thirteen months ago with his fiery rhetoric to keep the congregation’s eyes away from the gaudy buckles on his shoes.”

Ben is unable to mask the huff of exasperation in his response. “You’ve voiced your opinions of the Reverend very clearly before. Perhaps consider attending services every other week, as it’s becoming increasingly difficult to come up with reasons for your absence —”

“My absence?” Luke laughs. “Barely noted.”

Ben halts his steps. “The Reverend asked after you again this week, shook Mother’s hand and complimented her devotion despite her frail condition.” Ben narrows his eyes at Luke’s back as he ambles ahead, reminding himself that these moments of resentment for having to answer for his uncle’s actions have a danger of flirting close to wrath. “And he moved me to remind you of the fine assessed for —”

Luke is a few paces ahead of Ben when he realizes his nephew has stopped, spinning to face him as he waves his hand and scoffs, “He’s assessed it thrice already, he need not send another reminder.” He shakes his head and continues walking with his arms crossed, calling to Ben over his shoulder. “You hear what Goodwife Holdo was on about today when we picked up the note for your mother?”

Ben sighs as he hurries his steps to catch up, his breaths beginning to show with the later hour’s dropping temperature. He buttons up his woollen collar and indulges the question, even though he was present for the conversation,

“Parts of it.”

“Made mention of the most recent sermon, said the Reverend spoke of Satan’s works being felt as close as Beverly.” Luke spits again before glancing up to meet Ben’s eyes, his features turned down with a patronizing & disbelieving expression. “He offer any words on what those were?”

“Not that I can recall,” Ben answers truthfully, having spent most of the sermon studying the stitching of his breeches’ seams to avoid resting his eyes on Rey for too long.

“Goodwife Holdo thinks he refers to the three witches recently hanged there.”

Ben lifts his hat to scratch a spot behind his ear, shifting his jaw as he realizes Luke waits for his response. He considers whether this is some other aimless test and decides to sidestep it instead.

“Really,” he murmurs.

“Witches, if you are to believe something so absurd.” Ben can see Luke sputter in his periphery, one of his hands beginning to move with him as he continues, “The rubbish you’ll find usually reasonable folk believe with a Reverend stoking fear of Satan beneath the floorboards.” Luke chortles at his own joke but Ben does not smile. “Suspect Beverly too timid to charge the women with their true transgressions, lest you’d prefer to believe three innocents were put to death —”

“Bold conclusions both,” Ben interrupts, not seeing any way for this dialogue to end on a positive note. He places a hand behind his back to clench & unclench his fist but finds it does little to relieve his tension. “Witches or not, the Reverend is not wrong in reminding us to be wary of evil’s temptations —”

“Matters not.” Luke’s tone has a daydreaming quality that brings Ben to rapt attention. “I have tended to enough ill bodies and minds to know that the most irresistible temptations come from within.”

Something darkens in Luke’s gaze as he says it, his eyes creasing as he squints to discern the horse & cart tied up at the stables in the square. Ben halts to let his uncle stroll ahead once more, not expecting his stomach to drop so suddenly at the words. He glances north towards the road that winds past Plutt’s house to take him home, his pulse picking up a beat as he tastes the light salt of sweat on his tongue and rushes to stare at his own feet.

Luke makes no mention of his changed posture when he barks, “Heading back to administer your mother’s nightly draught. You intend to walk or ride back from study?”

Ben looks up the road again and there’s a flutter that winds beneath his skin. He bites the inside of his cheek and waves Luke on ahead. “You take the horse. Can have Dameron take me up part ways.”

Luke nods. “Pinch a jug of ale from him while there, near out of substrate for tinctures.”

“Aye,” Ben affirms, staying back with his hands by his sides as a static flickers through his fingers to wriggle within his gloves. He exhales slowly, his thoughts already wandering with possibility as he watches Luke mount the cart, pulling the reins to leave without bidding farewell. Ben tips his hat to Luke’s back as he shrinks towards the horizon, relieved to not be forced into the motions of pretending to care if he leaves.

…

…

Ben’s legs feel too long sitting in Dameron’s cart, one of his knees bouncing with a nervous energy as they approach the dark two-room house. Ben glances over to see a spark of concern cross Dameron’s features as the man drops one hand from the reins to scratch the back of his neck behind his jacket’s detachable wool collar.

“Wonder where…” Dameron muses quietly enough for Ben know he did not intend to be heard.

The thought trails unfinished, but the sentiment is complete enough for Ben to realize he wonders why his wife is not home. Dameron shakes his head before signalling the horse to slow, bringing the cart around back to rest beside the stables. Ben slides down and smooths the folds of his coat, adjusting his eyes to the small tract’s darkness beneath its thickets of towering oak trees. Dameron directs him to the small shed beside the stable where jugs of ale crowd the dirt floor with the unspoken understanding that payment is not expected as long as it works down his debt to Ben’s mother. Ben wishes Dameron a peaceful evening as he walks back to the road, turning back to offer a perfunctory wave of his hand despite the recipient being too distracted to return it.

The road is quiet and empty again, his footsteps sounding loud in his ears along the dimly moonlit path. A wind rustles and rubs the leafless branches of guarding trees, its chill less pronounced as winter toes further away. Ben emptily recalls musing aloud on the meaning of grace as a bead of sweat slithered down his neck in the forge’s stuffy backroom, and watches the steam of his breath shrink with the memory. He rubs his hands together to listen to the rough sound the leather makes as he quickens his pace, estimates another five minutes before he’ll be able to see whether there’s light in Plutt’s second story window.

Ben narrows his eyes as he watches the slowly thawing ground, unsure what it is that has reignited his determination to see her — to watch her expression soften when she comes into view, her chest swelling with deep breaths in time with a thrum of excitement runs through him when he watches her _feel the way he looks at her_ — The phrase repeats in his thoughts as if to ask whether he knows what she meant. He finds himself parsing apart the words again to match them with the heat that lingers when he wakes in the morning, his body feeling too tight for his clothes — And his scuffed boots seem strangely far away as Ben hesitates to look up from the road to stop his optimistic imaginings from dragging him along any further, before he can even tell if she is home.

Ben sweeps aside a crowd of pebbles in his path and something higher-pitched cuts behind the scattering sound they make. It doesn’t strike him odd as he continues for several steps, not stopping until he hears the noise again.

He lingers in place, cranes his neck to put the moon in sight and trains his ears to the landscape’s normal nocturnal skitterings trying to track the source of the sound. A branch cracks in the distance and Ben holds his breath to deepen the near silence, tensing his jaw during these few beats before he hears it again. It’s short & shrill (Ben relaxes his shoulders, assumes it’s a bird) and he takes one more step before pausing with recognition.

The noise is fuller, lighter, and definitely human — the peels and rolls of women’s laughter rushing together in a disorganized harmony.

Ben furrows his brows and turns to his left to face the treeline, the sound fading back deeper into the thick woods. He presses his lips together when he spots a faint yellow flickering, barely visible among the thick growths of tree trunks blocking it from view. He turns both ways to confirm the road is empty still, glances over his shoulder to observe only the fields bordering the left edge. He tips the brim of his hat as he watches his feet coast over the ground, slipping into the woods to find what hides out there.

He moves slowly towards the swaying light, silencing his approach with gentle steps atop the browning husks of winter-dry grass covering the forest’s floor. The shape becomes clearer as Ben leans & wanders to view the curiosity from new angles — and another burst of laughter crackles through the cold dry air, perking Ben’s ears to attention as he makes out the flames of a small bonfire in a faraway clearing encircled by a copse of thin birch trees. Shadows of slim figures cross the flames to dim & brighten it from Ben’s view, the mostly-obscured scene drawing him closer like a beacon in the dark woods. He hesitates when a twig cracks beneath his boot and squints his eyes to put the bodies in a sharper focus, but still cannot identify them from this distance.

He creeps further into the growth when a giggle withers between the trees, trailing off into a cheerful cry as if something extraordinary has happened. His pulse speeds as he slips behind thick trunks walking towards the clearing, ducking to avoid potential detection. He maintains his focus even as a rhythmic clapping begins, slow and steady and full from multiple sets of hands. Ben lifts the brim of his hat as he sweeps a few yards closer, taking a deep breath as he leans against the bark of a wide tree before poking his head around to observe the scene.

Ben’s eyes widen when he sees the flames rising from the mess of sticks in the middle of the clearing, the heat creating blurry streaks above it as four women circle around with small hops & stomps in time with their clapping hands. An uncovered metal pot rests in the fire, filled with a boiling liquid whose odor tastes bitter on Ben’s tongue. The women’s coifs rest lopsided on their unkempt hair, their faces lit with exuberant cheer, and Ben’s stomach drops when he realizes they’re dancing out here alone — creating their own music from the forest’s nighttime beats. Perhaps out of sight of the road & the town, but visible beneath the starry heaven’s watchful eye. And Ben cannot help but feel strange to see them bend & shake as if entranced by an unheard tune —

But he does not turn away, his thoughts racing as he identifies each woman in the ring when they twirl to face him without noticing his presence. Immediately he recognizes both Kaydel and Rey’s oldest sister Paige as they drop blades of dead grass before linking hands. Kaydel loses her footing and Paige laughs as she yanks the woman’s arm, toppling to the ground together with a tear of fabric that elicits another burst of giggles from the group. The other two women clamber over to help them up with broad grins and Ben spots Rey’s other sister Rose pointing to the frayed damaged hem of Kaydel’s blue petticoat. The fourth woman claps her hands to inspire them to start dancing again, her coif falling to the ground as she bounds ahead. Ben stares into the fire to suppress the awkward turning of his stomach, the creeping pang of shame in seeing Jessika Pava with her hair down after just leaving her husband who still does not know why she isn’t at home.

The group continues to celebrate without a care that they can be heard from the road. Ben swallows when a murky bubble rises & bursts on the surface of the pot’s simmering liquid, his gaze settling on an apron crumpled on the ground near the fire. A green petticoat lays twisted beside it, but all the women present are fully clothed and Ben blinks when he spots another discarded coif at the base of one of the birch trees circling the group. A crack of wood pierces through the women’s cheer; Ben glances over his shoulder to see nothing behind him, darting back to the clothes by the trees when another break directs him there. Rose twirls again and Paige grabs her shoulders to catch her, the sisters turning their attention to a white billowing form slipping between the trunks. Kaydel and Jessika pause their spinning to follow suit, crowding close to the sisters as Kaydel hikes the bottom of her torn skirt from the ground.

Another breeze rustles the tops of the barren branches, the bonfire’s flames tilting to move with its direction and Ben’s eyes follow to see where they point. His mouth opens in stunned silence when he watches a fifth woman come into view —

Rey’s white shift pools around her waist, baring the upper half of her body while the bottom skirts remain tied behind her hips. Dirt & twigs gather on the bottom edges of the clean cloth as it lowers further with each heavy step, until she stops in front of the bonfire. The shift’s ties hang low above her tailbone, only needing to be loosened just an inch more to drop all her clothing to the ground. The flames’ light shows Ben the details of her figure, the softness of her skin, and the dusky color of her nipples beneath the strange glow of its illumination. Her brown hair tumbles over her shoulders, dusting her collarbone and pointing down her sternum to frame the small space between her unbound breasts. They bounce just slightly when she perks up & down on her toes to peer into the pot, lengthening the lines of her figure as her graceful arms unfold to drop chunks of white birch bark into the brew.

Ben’s breaths stop (for a moment he worries his heart will too) and he forces his gaze away to the liquid that fizzes in response to the wood. The acrid odor grows more pungent, but the women are nonchalant about both the smell and Rey’s indecency. She claps her hands once and the women smile, standing still as Rey bends down to pick up the hot metal pot. She reaches her bare arms into the fire but there are no screams or gasps of shocked reactions, with all the women remaining silent as Rey watches the liquid come to a simmer. Ben’s eyes tumble up & down her unharmed skin as she holds the pot in place, his stomach dropping when she comes to stand and rests it on the ground. She is calm and unaffected, her skin staying attached to the palms of her hand when she lets go of the brew. The women huddle closer when Rey grabs a wooden spoon in her hand, watching intently as she dips it into the pot and brings the putrid-looking liquid to her mouth.

Ben’s pulse bumps loudly in his ears, a rush of both excitement & fear coursing through his veins as his knees begin to feel hollow beneath his own weight. Rey’s chest heaves as she drinks deeply and Ben watches the plane of her stomach above her gathered shift. He tries to keep his eyes away from her pebbled nipples and pushes down the intrusive thought of running them between his lips, shifting his weight with the unsettled shiver that runs through him. There’s an eager delight in charting the paths of her body underpinned by a instinctive caution reminding him that there is something odd and wrong at work. Her unburnt arms dip down to refill the ladle, her hand cradling the spoon to keep the liquid level as Paige strides up to meet her. Rey blows softly on the spoon and hands it to Paige, who pauses to inhale deeply before taking her own sip.

Ben gulps and an owl hoots overhead. He glances up and the branches scratching the sky above him are dizzying — His head swims when he looks back, his tongue lolling like cotton against his teeth when finds himself eyeing her breasts again — Rey steps away from her sister as she drinks and returns to the fire, bringing her hands to her back to untie the final piece of her shift that works to keep her lower half concealed — But her fingers stop, her eyebrows raise, and she turns to lock eyes with Ben with the faintest smile creeping over her features to suggest she knew he was there all along —

_Will you help me?_

Her fingertips tangle in the fabric as if to ask him to hike it down for her. Flush stains the apples of her cheeks even in the unfocused light. A lock of messed hair cuts across her forehead as her lips part with her deep breath, his focus darting down to the skin she slowly reveals below her navel when he feels that hardened swell twitch against the fabric of his breeches. He swallows but his feet are rooted to the spot, holding him still despite a call to step towards her.

_Will you, Ben?_

This time he does not nod.

This time he runs, and does not stop until he reaches the road and spins around to confirm he does not see her. He gasps to feel the cool nighttime air fill his lungs with the reminder that he remains on solid ground, his mind still reeling with recent memory. He does not look up to the darkened window when he rushes by Plutt’s house, instead turning up his collar to hide his face with an irrational fear that her father might see him. He does not put the ale into storage, instead resting it on the empty table with his heavy coat. Ben collapses into his bedroll without stripping himself for the evening, guarding his body from his own thoughts as he forces his eyes closed into a restless sleep.

…

…

Ben lasts three days before he tears one of his doublets and sets out to go see her, determined to speak with Rey alone before seeing her at the Meeting-House later in the week. He bites the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the ripped fabric he carries on his walk down the morning-lit road, rousing himself to attention when he hears one of the neighbors chopping wood behind a house along the route. It’s become increasingly difficult to push away the picture of Rey’s opened shift when it flits through his thoughts, her skin seeming fresh & new despite it not being the first time he’s seen a woman’s body over the years of his apprenticeship. But there’s something rousing and heady that etches in him when he imagines walking up behind her instead of turning to run, dawdling his long fingers on the curve of her back. Then he would trail them down to the ties of her skirts, pull them gently to make everything fall to her ankles and reach forward to hitch her hips close to his. The daydream always stops there despite a nudging in his limbs to continue farther, but the reminder of other circumstances & beckoning sin work to keep him at bay.

The fabric bunches between his clenched hands when Ben reaches the path that meets the road, stopping to look up at a movement behind the window before reaffirming his decision and walking along the trodden dirt. He’s surprised to see Plutt’s horse tied in its stall without the man puttering outside as he usually does, but Ben doesn’t pay it any mind and considers it an added convenience instead. He has few words planned as he approaches the front door and clears his throat in anticipation of greeting the family, somehow finding a way to request Rey’s presence with him alone.

Ben raps his knuckles on the door, trains his ears to the scratch of a chair and a rustling inside. Light footsteps approach the threshold and he tilts his hat in greeting as the door opens, his words stopping mid-breath when he sees Rey standing in the entryway.

Their eyes meet and he drops his hand to his side, rebunching his hold on his torn doublet with the other. She smiles shyly beneath her tidy coif with a wave of her hand to invite him inside, hesitating by the door to close it behind them when Ben steps into the empty sitting room. He glances back to watch her eyes flutter closed in time with creaking footsteps on the floor upstairs, breathing out slowly before she crosses the room to stand by the hearth. 

Ben looks up the staircase. “Your family…?”

She nods, staring into the flames, looking peaceful in profile despite the chaotic feeling her presence inspires inside him. He waits a moment to see if she will speak, stepping in closer with slightly outstretched arms. Rey’s expression softens when she sees the cloth bundle he holds and raises her eyebrows to ask him,

“Did you need me to mend this for you?”

And somehow all the things he thought to say wither from his tongue and retreat down his throat, leaving Ben to stare down at his doublet as she comes in closer to remove it from his hands. They all distill to a single syllable that rings clear despite being a near-whisper in the room,

“Yes.”

She nods again, tilting her head to the side as she removes the garment from his grip. Her hands linger by his for an extra beat, as if testing them in close proximity, and his chest flutters in time with a flurry of activity above them. Something topples over and rushes across the floor, prompting Ben to glance up despite not wanting to pause whatever is unfolding between them. He swallows hard and wonders if she watches the movement of his throat as he counts the seconds of silent meaning filling the room. He meets her eyes once more as she lingers, brushing her fingers closer as if they might meet his before drifting back with the doublet wrung tightly in her grip.

She stares at the staircase and heavy beats thud from above as Ben’s attention turns to follow.

There’s a grunt & a trip and Plutt bursts down from the top of the stairs, his feet seeming to fall beneath him. His doughy hand grips the railing hard when he reaches the landing, his body swaying off-balance and his face drawn & pale with terror.

“Praise be — Solo, fetch yer uncle it’s —”

Rey slips away and rests the doublet on the wooden table, meeting Ben’s eyes briefly as she stands still and waits for Plutt to speak. Ben turns back to her father as he stammers to find his words,

“It’s Rose, she —” Plutt’s knuckles turn white as he manages to speak. “Rose has taken ill an’ she — There’s something wrong with the girl, Solo, she will not move an’ she will not speak —”

Ben’s stomach drops when he hears a slam of shutters upstairs.

“— Until just now, when she — When she ran to the window trying to fly when ‘er sister began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments & feedback so far. Hope you enjoyed this second chapter and I'm excited for what's to come next :) Big thank you to my betas [elemie89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elemie89), [weddersins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weddersins), and [savebensolo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savebensolo) for all their help and for being awesome friends.
> 
> Come say hi on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/theselittlefics) and [Tumblr](http://littlethingsfic.tumblr.com). Happy Halloween xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

Luke shakes his head as he slings his pack over his shoulder, patting the horse’s neck and tugging on the reins to check the ties. The beast snorts and Luke offers a small smile while Ben stands outside the stable eyeing Plutt’s horse in the stall beside it. The late morning’s sky is blue but dulled, its light casting a dim glow over the remaining half-melted patches of snow scattered over the field. Luke clears his throat as he walks up beside Ben, requesting his nephew’s attention for their customary briefing before heading inside.

“Remind me the symptoms once more,” Luke asks, bringing a hand to his beard as he gazes over the grounds. 

Ben licks his dried lips out of habit despite knowing they’ll crack later, turning to reply to Luke’s profile. “Plutt said that Rose will not move or speak, not even to take meals. She lays in bed, paled and in slumber, unresponsive to all attempts to rouse her.”

“Save for the sister reciting the Lord’s Prayer.” Luke looks down to his pack as he adjusts the strap resting on his shoulder. “He claims that roused her from this state.”

“Aye,” Ben says, noting his uncle’s lightly disbelieving tone.

“Came to fetch me instead of offering a preliminary examination?”

Luke raises an eyebrow with a lopsided smirk and pivots to walk towards the home, physically waving off Ben’s opportunity to respond. He strides ahead and raps his knuckles on the door, not turning back to see Ben stilled in his place as he clenches his fists to steady his nerves. The comment’s patronizing implication hangs between them, prompting Ben to grunt as he joins Luke.

“He requested you specifically,” he explains in a hushed tone, knowing it’s an excuse to hide his impulse to flee when Plutt broke the tension spooling in the room. Ben trains his ears to the footsteps pattering down the stairs inside, his stomach flipping as he pictures Rey staring into the hearth.

“The girl likely caught a chill. Or was overcome by a fever dream,” Luke mutters, the words whistling through his teeth at his pause. “But that’ll not prevent Plutt from spinning one of his tall tales after she recovers in several days time.”

“He appears thoroughly convinced of something more,” Ben responds, recalling the man’s paled and harrowed expression.

He glances over to see Luke roll his eyes and both men straighten their posture when the steps halt by the front door. It opens hesitantly into the empty sitting room and some seconds pass before Paige sticks her head out to gesture them inside. Ben swallows when he notices the creased rings below her eyes, idly wonders if she spent the night awake by Rose’s bedside.

“Good morrow Goodman Skywalker.” She nods softly in greeting. “Goodman Solo.”

“How do you fare, Miss Plutt?” Luke asks, taking on the flatly inquisitive but vulnerable voice he uses with his patients.

“Worn from hours of unrest last night. And she has lain still since —” She glances to Ben before looking down to her wringing hands. “Since she tried to take flight.”

Ben bites the inside of his cheek as Luke takes his notebook from his belt, flipping to a blank page. “Should take the opportunity to sleep. We do not want you falling ill as well.”

Paige drops her hands and breathes out slowly, eyeing a bedroll tucked away with sewing items on the other side of the room. Ben follows her gaze and sees a pair of unfinished stockings & a torn petticoat draped over the chairs, furrowing his brow when he doesn’t spot his doublet with the breeches & collars strewn across one side of the long table.

“After we find what ails Rose,” she determines.

There’s a pause as something scoots across the floor above them and Paige brushes past the pair to lead them up the stairs. Luke licks his fingertip as he folds down a corner of paper, taking on his relaxed yet focused manner of calculation as he silently bids Ben to follow. Feet skitter on the ceiling as everyone gathers and Ben hesitates briefly with the realization that he’ll be seeing behind the window’s candle-lit frame. He drags his hand along the wall as he ascends, his fingers feeling strange inside his gloves. His thoughts race with uncomfortable possibility when he tries to dismiss the intrusive memory of Rey’s unburnt arms in the fire — to sever the hasty connections his lingering suspicions make to her sister’s illness.

The second story is a single room, with a door by the landing leading to a pantry. The walls are barren like nearly every other Ben has visited in the Village with two small beds propped against one wall. Rose lays with her eyes closed on the one next to the shuttered view of the stable, her arms straight by her sides beneath the blanket. Luke stands over her with one hand spanning her forehead, the other gingerly resting on the space between her collarbone & breasts as he silently counts the seconds it takes her to exhale. Plutt is by a square set of spartan drawers, crowding close to the examination and rubbing his chin. Rey and Paige sit on the edge of the second bed with their backs facing Ben, not a hair slipping from their identical tidy white coifs. No one acknowledges his entrance and he looks to his left. A wooden divider obscures his view of the other side of the room, the side with the window that faces the road. There is a small table with a candle-holder on its surface in the bit of visible space, but a third bed cannot be seen.

Ben tips his hat as he joins the group, leaning on the drawers behind Plutt where he can see Rey and Paige. Their faces are blank with observational curiosity, both women staring at Luke’s back as he counts once more. Ben reminds himself to keep his hands idle when he searches Rey’s expression for a glimmer of recognition, but she remains focused on Rose’s feet tenting the crumpled sheets at end of the bed. Luke clicks his tongue and steps back to scribble some preliminary notes.

“Not a fever,” he remarks. “Feels cold to the touch.”

“Two sets of ‘ands for the work of three below,” Plutt tuts, tapping his fingers atop the drawers. “Been this way since yesterday’s morn.”

Luke acknowledges the response with a soft nod. “The chill should work through her naturally, however it’s vital that she take her next meal lest her body weaken and symptoms worsen. Should recover in a few days time —”

“She rises for no words or movements,” Paige offers, the end of her phrase trailing up like a nervous question. Ben raises an eyebrow as Luke turns to watch her speak. “Like her soul has been taken by a dream, awakened only —”

“By the Lord’s Prayer.” Luke completes the sentence and she shifts in her seat. “Try it again to see if she shall eat. Your devotion to your sister and to your Savior may be what —”

Plutt tilts his head as he cuts in. “Twasn’t gratitude we saw when she ran for the window.”

Luke blinks but continues without missing a beat. “It’s not uncommon to be overcome by episodes with rapid changes in body temperature, especially if lacking water or proper nourishment.” 

“Her eyes were ablaze with a light not of this earth,” Plutt retorts with a dark and knowing tone, unwavering in his insistence that there is more to explore. “Not like other ill spells I’ve seen.”

Ben swallows when neither woman stirs, considers whether they’re hesitant to meet his gaze. Luke presses his lips into a straight line and narrows his eyes as he jots something down with no change to his demeanor.

“Perhaps from exhaustion.” Papers rustle when he turns a page. “Certain types of malnutrition can discolor the whites of one’s —”

“Make ‘em glow too?” Plutt huffs, emphasizing his exasperation with an aggressively pointed finger. “Run ‘cross to leap with jagged limbs?”

This gives Luke some pause. “Cramping muscles, joints,” he murmurs without moving his writing implement. Paige glances up from her lap when Luke turns to face her and Rey again. “Does your sister skip meals regularly or is this a symptom?”

The hems of Rey’s skirts swish the trodden floor as she moves her feet beneath them, keeping her palms flat on her knees as Paige’s answer stumbles from her parted lips. “This — Aye, ‘tis a symptom.”

“Any deviations from her usual routine in the past several days?”

Luke’s inquiry prompts something in the pair and Rey looks up to meet Ben’s face. The air below his collar thickens with a feathered brush on the skin of his neck. His fingers creep upwards to undo the top button as Rey observes her sister’s tense knuckles when she replies,

“Nay.”

Paige does not break eye contact with Luke even as she lies. Ben crosses his arms as the churning in his stomach stews in time with a low hum that trembles in the corners of the dreary space. It creeps closer to his heels with a gentle sweep of invitation, trying to guide his attention back to Rey while that rational part of himself urges him to be wary again. His foot turns inward as he casts its warning aside, setting his jaw slightly right when he watches Rey’s eyelashes flutter closed. But he makes no mention of spying the women dancing in the woods.

“No deviations at all?” Luke reiterates.

“Aye,” Paige affirms. “No deviations.”

Ben shuffles to glance towards the closed window when he pictures Paige’s deep breath before sipping from the ladle, the firelight skipping shadows over the curves of Rey’s bared chest as she silently encouraged her sister to drink. Ben clasps his gloved hands behind his back as Luke shuts the notebook, holding it between his teeth as he rifles through his bag and nods to Rey in silent request.

“I’ve not seen any either,” Rey agrees.

The glass tincture vials clatter together in their slim box as Luke seems satisfied with her answer, making no verbal assessments of the women’s denials as he takes out a clay jug marked with a circle. He holds it out to Paige and drops it into her cupped open palms before adding a final line to his summary.

“Administer this draught an hour after supper…”

Something tugs Ben’s gut like a signal, easing him into relenting against his hesitation and looking back up to meet Rey’s eyes once more. The conversation seems to dim and Luke’s instructions continue stretched & slow in snippets when Ben draws the soft angles of her cheeks into his memory.

“… I’ll be by … tomorrow’s morn … to check her condition …”

Her expression doesn’t change, her mouth remaining closed even as her voice trembles close to his ear,

_He’ll put me out in the stables again._

Ben isn’t sure why she mentions being disciplined and glances to Plutt’s broad square back, seemingly frozen as he tilts down to examine Rose as she sleeps. The box Luke closes does not emit its loud clack as the latches lock into place. Rey blinks, but Paige remains halted with her mouth parted as if waiting for the correct moment to speak.

None of the others seem to hear her, if they can hear anything at all.

_It’s so cold to sleep out there alone._

The late winter air is thin even in the cozy house’s upper floor and all the rising warmth from the hearth below heightens the unsettling drop in Ben’s stomach when he breathes deeply through his nose. Rey’s words are punctuated by the nervous shudder of hardened breaths, clenching her jaw as she gestures towards Plutt with a nod. The man remains fixed in his prior position with an eerie stillness that cues Ben to look for signs that Plutt is breathing.

_Will you help me, Ben?_

She repeats the same question but it carries new meaning, her eyes widening just enough for him to understand. He bites the skin inside his cheek as his heart thumps against his ribs again, its beats growing louder & more intense when he recognizes they’re the only two moving in the room. The squat ceiling seems to drop even lower, nailing Ben’s anxious feet to the floorboards despite a dizzy sensation in his knees —

“…Fetch me if she has another episode before then.”

All the air returns with a small pop as Luke completes his instructions and everyone else falls back into completing their motions. The latches clack flatly as Plutt bends further to examine Rose’s hands. Paige seems to reconsider something before Plutt barks with his finger pointed to Luke again,

“Yeh don’t believe me, Skywalker?”

Luke works to keep a stoic face, though Ben isn’t sure the others can tell. “My judgment is reserved ‘til the opportunity to observe first-hand. We can try tomorrow after she’s taken some time to recover.”

Plutt shakes his head but appears to accept Luke’s response, his stance relaxing when he turns back to Ben with a crowded grin like he has too many teeth. “Send the family’s regards to yer mother, Solo.”

Ben buttons back his collar to distract his hands, pausing a moment when he expects to hear Rey in his ear and wonders what she thinks of Plutt’s terminology. Ben forces himself not to look in her direction as Luke bids farewell and descends the stairs.

“Aye, I will,” Ben replies. He adjusts his hat and the front door opens & closes below. “Fare thee well.”

Ben pivots to leave, staring at his feet as he walks silently in his uncle’s wake. He goes just a little bit faster when a warmth trails his back as if he’s being watched, counting his own breaths as he exits the room. Some of the tension in his chest ebbs as he reaches the landing & hears a murmur upstairs, oddly relieved to have the opportunity to sit beside Luke on the cart and tend to his racing thoughts in awkward silence —

Something heavy bumps twice upstairs, like two halves of an object falling at once on the floor. There’s a shuffle, then a jump, and another pair of feet scurry to the corner of the room. Ben’s hand stops on the door’s handle, pausing one more beat to confirm that Rose is suffering another episode before rushing outside to call for Luke.

“Check on yer friend? Yeh’ll be lucky if I let yeh leave this house again!”

Plutt’s sentence ends with a thin whoosh that cracks in time with a scooting noise & small yelp of pain.

“Check on yer friend — After I give yeh meals, a place to sleep, an’ yeh bring Paige & Rose out to the wood?”

Ben cringes when he imagines Rey on the floor, unsure whether or not she brings her hands to her face, and asks himself if Plutt assumes he’s already gone. Her punishment is not uncommon, but there’s a twist in Ben’s throat when he senses her hurt (even a pang of guilt) that reminds Ben of the times he felt the whip of a switch as well. He shudders hearing the crack a second time, tells himself he’s under her father’s roof. He glances up the stairs but cannot see any figures by the landing.

“Yeh repay me by blemishing yer sisters.” Ben pictures Plutt rubbing his shined forehead with a glare. “Inspire rumors of weak conditions, when yeh know their marriages are entry for land in this town?”

A third set of feet shift away from the others and Ben can barely hear Paige when she whispers in protest, “No one has —”

“Yeh’d be wise to mind yer tongue before it finishes that thought!” There are a couple loud thumps as Plutt whirls to address her interruption, emphasizing his implied command with a cold edge.

Ben swallows when he tells himself that he should not be concerned, when he repeats to himself again that he is betrothed to another. He tries to view Rey as a girl under her father’s care, despite her age and her perceptive expressions that seem to betray insights & knowledge not found in any books. Despite her impish smile when she asked him to untie her shift by the fire. Despite her hair falling from her coif when she felt the meaning of his gaze. He knows the restlessness coursing his limbs comes from his worry for this woman who came to the Village so shortly ago and has occupied his thoughts ever since — with an oaf who has the gall to flog her with a switch and play the part of her father even when —

There’s another drag along the ceiling and Ben assumes it’s Rey slowly rising from the floor. Plutt snarls, “No, yeh cannot see yer friend, Rey, an’ don’t consider even asking again ‘til the season after next.”

Ben opens the door to slip out quietly when he hears Plutt stomp towards the landing, his entire body relaxing as he closes it gently and breathes the fresh air deeply through his nose. Luke has the horse out from the stable and stands petting the creature’s snout, not looking up as Ben mounts the cart to sit beside the reins. Ben watches the second story window as Luke climbs in, silently polishing the memory of Rey’s voice in his ear even though a small part of him insists that he should be scared instead.

…

…

It does not take long for them to arrive at their destination, only riding a little ways up to the road to Dameron’s two-room house. Luke and Ben stand at the head of the empty bed, watching Jessika as she slowly paces the room’s perimeter and raps her knuckles along the walls. Luke scribbles his observations in his notebook, nodding to Ben as he asks him to try once more. Ben steps into Jessika’s path and claps his hands abruptly right in front of her, but she does not flinch or acknowledge his presence at all.

“How long has she been in this state?” Luke asks as Ben waves a hand in front of Jessika’s face, the other resting on her shoulder to halt her in her path.

Dameron leans against the open frame leading to the main room, itching the back of his neck nervously. “Since yesterday’s noon.”

Ben raises a single finger to move it side-to-side once more, seeking Jessika’s glazed eyes for any hint of recognition. They do not dart to follow his movements and her jaw remains slightly slack, her mouth open just enough to allow for small breaths. Her hand knocks against the wall again, silencing Luke and Dameron. A few moments pass before Ben realizes they wait for him to speak.

“No response to either test.” He steps away from Jessika and she resumes pacing, this time turning with the room’s border to knock along another stretch of wall.

“When did she last take a meal?” Luke raises an eyebrow when Jessika bumps against a table before walking around it. Instead of rapping her knuckles on its surface, her hand stays in its place and knocks along the empty air.

“Yesterday morning.” Dameron crosses his arms and looks down to his feet.

The three men stop to observe Jessika when she bumps against the edge of the lumpy bed. She keeps walking in place and knocking, completely oblivious to the obstacle in her way.

Luke furrows his brows as he takes additional notes, pausing to direct Ben with his thumb. “Help her lay down, see if some moments of stillness will help to cleanse her addled mind.”

Ben bites his cheek as he places his hands on her shoulders once more, nudging her to turn about to face him as he hears Dameron stride up to join his side. Her empty visage remains unchanged, her body stirring to sit when Dameron takes her hand to guide her down. He perches next to his wife on the edge, rubbing circles on her back when Ben lays the palm of his hand on her forehead.

“Her skin is cool to the touch,” Ben offers flatly, working to dismiss that unsettled rolling in his stomach again. His nail accidentally feathers the edge of her coif. “No visible responses still.”

One of Dameron’s knees bounces, his voice uncharacteristically thin and wavering when he speaks, “She is awake but her soul is taken.”

The words fall over the space like a low bell and Ben is unable to meet the man’s gaze. Ben clasps his hands behind his back, distantly aware that he hears a horse’s hooves & cart’s wheels coming to slow outside. Dameron helps Jessika lay down on her back carefully. Her eyes stay peeled open, gaping at the roof, and her frigid hand trembles every few seconds in Dameron’s grasp.

“She has fallen into a concerning physical state, however I assure you her soul is perfectly intact.” Luke closes his book with an air of finality, stuffing it in his belt’s pocket as he goes to Jessika’s side.

He clasps the wrist of her free hand and presses two fingers down to time her heartbeats, his focus unbroken even as someone shouts by the entrance. Dameron squeezes Jessika’s other hand before he stands, leaving the room to check who is there. Ben shifts his weight as another voice outside urges a horse to stay in place, tuning his ears to the creak of the opening door. A flurry of urgent movements distract Luke from his count, glancing over to Ben with a raised eyebrow when a familiar voice calls out,

“Goodman Skywalker, your sister say your rounds tracked up the road towards the square —”

Ben pales when Miss Phasma bursts into the room, a bud of guilt tightening his chest upon seeing his intended so shortly after the unnerving & longing he experienced with Rey. She drags Kaydel by her upper arm, yanking the woman to follow and pushing her into the room. Miss Phasma tightens her grip when Kaydel whimpers and struggles to pull away.

“She woke the whole manor screaming during the night,” Miss Phasma explains, her usual declarative tone underpinned by hollow breaths of fear. “Answered to none for five minutes before falling back to her bed.” Her eyes widen as Kaydel stomps her feet. “This morning she —”

Luke drops Jessika’s wrist when Kaydel peels away with a snarl. Miss Phasma swoops in to grab the woman by her ear and locks of hair fall from her coif to cover her face.

“This morning she sleeps until the sun is well up, finally stirring to dress and walk to the stables like none of us are there.” Ben steps closer upon seeing a sheen to Kaydel’s narrowed eyes that glare up at Miss Phasma as she continues. “Find her nose in the corner speaking in tongues, skin frozen when we turn her about and —”

She shoves Kaydel towards the bed, arm still outstretched when she points and urges her to speak, “Tell them!”

Luke raises his hand towards Ben as a signal to remain silent, not visibly startled by the volume of the sudden intrusion. Dameron leans against a wall and his mouth falls open as Kaydel braces herself on the headboard. She shudders and tears streak her cheeks when her anxious voice swells weakly in the room,

“‘Twas a pact, made with a demon’s blessing — out in the wood with Jessika and Rose and —”

Her face goes blank, her body limp, and Ben rushes to catch her before she collapses on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) Let me know what you think and come say hi on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/theselittlefics), [Tumblr](http://littlethingsfic.tumblr.com), and [Pillowfort](http://www.pillowfort.io/theselittlethings).
> 
> Big thank you to my betas [elemie89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elemie89), [weddersins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weddersins), and [savebensolo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savebensolo) xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a little bit of inspiration from the historical figure Reverend Samuel Parris for Hux's background in this chapter, as well as for the outline of this story generally (although tangentially).
> 
> Did not expect a month between updates, hope it does not disappoint :)

Luke kneels to take Kaydel’s pulse as Ben props her up on the floor, his arms on her back holding her in place. He watches Luke’s lips move silently as he counts, noticing a longer pause between beats. Dameron crouches next to Luke to observe the scene closely, glancing back over to the bed every few seconds to see if Jessika has stirred. He nods his head when Luke places Kaydel’s hand back over her sternum in a gesture of wordless prayer.

Ben looks up to meet Miss Phasma’s widened eyes when she opens her mouth to speak, “Is she — stable?”

“Her blood has slowed,” Luke responds, focus trained on Kaydel’s sunken unconscious face. “Skin cold to the touch.”

Miss Phasma taps her foot nervously. “She said she made a pact with a demon’s blessing.”

“Aye, she did,” Luke acknowledges, grabbing his book to write another set of notes. “Specifically mentioned both Goodwife Dameron and Miss Rose Plutt as well, two patients who also share the symptom of frigid skin.”

Poe raises his eyebrows as he stares back at the bed. “Do you think she speaks the truth?”

Ben’s stomach twists and he swallows hard, shifting his weight to lean Kaydel against the wall and to hide his expressive face. The same suspicion he felt at Plutt’s home creeps beneath his skin again, bidding him to reveal what he saw when the women danced in the woods. But the growing tension in the room moves Ben to silence, placing Kaydel’s limp hands on her lap as Luke answers,

“Miss Plutt’s sisters reported no deviations from her usual routine, but that does not rule out being exposed to something outside their presence.” Luke feathers the end of his quill along his beard, following Dameron’s eyes to where Jessika lays. “Whether that was a demon or not remains to be seen.”

Luke and Dameron stand to return to the bed while Ben stays on his knees on the floor. Miss Phasma sets her hands on her hips with a stern expression and a note of disbelief in her voice,

“The Reverend spoke of Satan’s works coming closer to the Village, of keeping a watchful eye for his influence with the recent hangings in Beverly.” She meets Ben’s gaze as she continues. “We should fetch for him immediately.”

But her eyes do not linger long, do not meet Ben’s with the hint of wistful longing that he swears he reads in Rey’s. Miss Phasma still composes herself with the same distant air, as if she doesn’t know or recognize him at all. She raises her eyebrows when she turns back to Luke, who returns his notebook to his belt as he shakes his head,

“It is too early to have cause for alarm.”

“He should still be alerted at once.” Miss Phasma picks up the bottoms of her skirts to keep them off the dusty floor, turning back to assess Kaydel’s condition once more. “Shall I —”

Dameron waves his hand to signal her to leave before Luke has a chance to interject. She exits the room urgently without bidding farewell, nodding quickly to the men before she hurries outside to ride into town. Ben clears his throat as he comes to stand, awkwardly wiping his palms on his trousers as he looks down at Kaydel slumped against the wall.

“She just leaves the girl here…” Luke mumbles to himself as he shakes his head. 

Ben crosses the room to stand by his uncle while Dameron takes a seat by Jessika’s side at the edge of the bed. He takes his wife’s hand with a hesitation that Ben hasn’t seen in the man before, his knee bouncing slightly as he watches the tiny movements behind her closed eyelids.

Luke tilts his head as he observes the scene and doesn’t look up when Ben offers his whispered suggestion, “Perhaps we should test Plutt’s theory.”

“The prayer?”

“Aye.” Dameron doesn’t acknowledge their hushed conversation despite being close enough to hear.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been swept into this nonsense too,” Luke huffs, not making any effort to conceal his exasperation. “The cause of their illness is likely environmental. The women may be suffering from episodes, but only Phasma’s girl made any mention of a demon —”

Dameron interrupts their exchange with a heavy tone, “We mustn’t take any chances with their souls possibly at risk.”

Luke sighs, pinching his narrowed brows as he deadpans, “I’m sure the Reverend would agree.”

Ben clasps his hands behind his back as his uncle muses silently, his chest tightening as if everyone in the room will freeze again. He straightens his shoulders as he tries to rationalize his continued discretion on the women’s behalf, relying on the persistent intuition that he should confront Rey first, especially with Miss Phasma making mention of Beverly’s hangings already. He glances away to Kaydel as Dameron bends down to kiss Jessika’s forehead. The man lets his lips dwell on her chilled skin in Ben’s periphery, his hand clutching hers just a little harder when —

The bed creaks as Jessika sits up with a loud gasp that shatters the uncomfortable stillness in the room. The three men tense and stagger backwards instinctively as she points to the small square window a couple feet above Kaydel’s head. Her mouth falls open and the dry winter air cracks her thin shined lips, her paled face drooping with a vacant expression,

“Fly.”

The word rings clear in Ben’s ears and he darts over to Kaydel’s side as the woman’s hands twitch to press down on the floorboards. He holds his breath before grasping Kaydel’s wrist to find her pulse, but she yanks it away to prop up her own head in unnaturally jagged motions. It lolls down and over her shoulder like her neck has gone limp, her half-lidded eyes drawn to Jessika’s finger with a blink of recognition. Luke sweeps in to urge Jessika to lay down, gingerly reaching for her shoulders when she twists her wrist,

“Out there.”

This time Kaydel rests her head against the wall, raising one arm to point to the window above her. The rest of her body remains motionless as if being reminded to stay in place. Ben expects to see Luke pressing Jessika to heed his advice, but his uncle stands at rapt attention watching the women instead. All the blood drains from Dameron’s face as he rubs Jessika’s back in an effort to rouse her from her state, bracing himself for what he imagines may come next. 

An owl hoots outside despite the early hour, its piercing call unusually loud in the crowded room. Jessika nods towards Kaydel and the second woman drops her hand back to her lap, closing her eyes again to appear peacefully asleep. Luke crosses the room to examine the window, taking long purposeful strides as he shoots Ben a knowing glare.

“Jessika…” Dameron’s creaking suggestion spurs his wife to smile, nodding once more before licking her teeth and flopping back down onto the bed.

Ben’s startled breath hitches in his throat and he spins towards Luke for some guidance, looking up to his uncle looming close to the pane of glass above him — and the sight stings with identical positioning of memory —

He sets it aside to suggest, “Shall we check their hearts again?”

“Aye,” Luke responds, his mouth barely moving.

Kaydel’s wrist stays steady when Ben’s tracks her pulse. Luke remains by the window for only a few seconds before pivoting to return to Jessika’s side. All of them stay silent and the floorboards feel rough against Ben’s knees as he counts the spaces between Kaydel’s heartbeats. He bites his lip as the woman stirs with a deep breath and slow exhale, relaxing her limbs to slouch.

…

…

The men gather by the hearth in the larger sitting room after Jessika and Kaydel lay asleep for several minutes. Dameron stirs a slow-boiling stew warming on the fire, coming back from the flames to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.

“What do you make of their conditions?”

Luke removes his hat with a shrug, smoothing his hair as he checks the closed door. “Environmental exposure, but unable to determine its origins yet. We should know more by tomorrow once the illness has spread or shrank —”

“And until then?” Dameron interrupts with a quizzical tone.

“Administer the draught an hour after supper. Be sure to wake her for meals, it is vital her body receive nourishment to flush —”

“Wake her for meals?” Dameron waves his hand towards the bedroom when his voice raises in astonishment. “Her mind is barely fit for —”

“Any other measure at this juncture would be dangerous, Goodman Dameron.” Luke speaks evenly despite an air of heavy warning. “The right cure can only be found if the illness is properly diagnosed. An incorrect formula or dosage could exacerbate the existing symptoms or bring her close to death.”

Dameron bites his lip before turning away to stare into the hearth, eyes darting over the flames licking the stew pot’s bottom edges. Ben still stands a couple feet away from the pair, observing them by the modest home’s front door. Luke places his hat back on his head, adjusting the rim and observing Dameron’s profile when he speaks,

“I’ll have my vengeance on whatever set this evil upon this town.” It’s said with the conviction and determination of an oath. “Upon my wife.”

Ben shifts his weight and Luke responds with a somber nod, pressing his lips to a line as a glimmer of genuine compassion softens his features. He steps closer to join Dameron’s side, not looking away as he rummages in his bag for the box of tinctures,

“We’ll know the remedy once we determine the cause.”

The clamber of cart wheels over uneven ground draws closer to the house, carried by the beating percussion of horses’ hooves. Ben glances to the closed door when the noises slow upon approach, prompting him to clear his throat and join his uncle’s side,

“Should we try to wake the girl before Miss Phasma’s arrival?”

Luke shakes his head, handing Ben the tincture box from the bag. The glass vials clink against each other when he flips it gently to unlatch the clasps.

“Three marks,” Luke instructs, holding up the same amount of fingers to indicate how many lines are drawn on the label. Dameron leans in to stir the stew again, checking over his shoulder briefly to see if anyone in the adjoining room has moved. Ben pinches a vial between his long fingers, swallowing hard when Luke speaks with a low mischievous tone,

“Think she’s brought the illustrious Reverend to grace us with his many years of medical knowledge?” It’s said with a sarcastic edge that heightens the dread turning Ben’s stomach, now reeling with the thought of having to answer for his uncle again.

Dameron turns around to take the tincture from Ben, shoving it into his belt’s pocket without examining the vial at all. He trains his eyes to the floorboards and mutters to Ben under his breath,

“But he can guide back her soul, which answers to no mortal cure.”

Ben blinks, unsure if he was meant to hear it. He holds the opened box for a few seconds too long, biting his cheek as multiple pairs of feet march loudly outside the door. Neither Luke or Dameron acknowledge the sounds, both men holding their thoughtful positions as if bracing themselves to be thrown out of place. They don’t even look up when a knock shudders the hinges on the front door. A moment passes and Ben latches the box closed, watching Dameron’s back when he goes to the entryway.

“Pray pardon me!” Dameron calls when there’s another vigorous knock, his hand barely pulling the handle when the door’s opened by a push and a gust of wind.

He weaves away from the entrance as the Reverend Hux sweeps over the threshold, his woollen cloak ruffling behind him as he tips the wide brim of his hat. The man carries himself with an authority that makes him seem older than the smooth planes of his pale face suggest, surveying the room with a sharp gaze as he removes his gloves. Hux rubs his hands together to warm them as Miss Phasma follows, her cheeks flushed & bitten by the season’s cold. 

“Good morrow Reverend.” Dameron tips his hat in greeting, but Luke remains silent. Ben acknowledges Hux with a nod, elbowing his uncle to mirror his movements. 

“How do you fare, Goodman Dameron?” Hux steps closer to place a hand on his congregant’s shoulder. “Miss Phasma tells me that the Goodwife suffers from an…” Ben can’t tell if he pauses for dramatic effect or to pick his words carefully. “…unusual condition.”

“Aye, been praying for her throughout the night,” Dameron replies with a sigh. Luke visibly shifts his weight as the man continues. “I remain faithful that her soul will return soon.”

Hux squeezes his shoulder lightly and Luke nudges Ben to point to the Reverend’s shoes. “Silver buckles again,” he huffs, “Even got a hat to match.”

No one else makes note of Hux’s unusual extravagances, crediting the detailed finery of his clothing to his career as a merchant in the Caribbean — an occupation he held until finding his calling with the Church, not too long before arriving in the Village. But while Luke views this history as evidence for closely-held avarice, especially in light of the Reverend’s unorthodox request to be granted ownership of the Church’s grounds, Hux has not aroused similar suspicions from most folks in town. Dameron and Miss Phasma follow Hux’s movements with the same respect the man inspires at his dramatic sermons, their faces eager with an anticipation that puts a sour taste on Ben’s tongue. 

“By the Lord’s grace she will be healed,” Hux says, dropping his hand to put his gloves back on. He brings his voice low when he approaches Luke, “Doctor, you’ve examined both these women and one of Plutt’s girls too, is that correct?”

It’s said politely enough, as if forced from his throat to maintain civility in close quarters. Luke doesn’t bother to conceal his irritation. “Aye, I have.”

“You made mention of their sharing common symptoms.” The Reverend’s jaw tenses when he notices Luke scrutinizing the intricate patterns stitched along the hems of his cloak. “Frigid skin. Anything else?”

Luke makes a show of reaching just too slowly for his notebook when he nods dreamily like he cannot recall. Ben tries to maintain a neutral expression despite a rush of discomfort & anger making his collar feel too tight. The act seems so unnecessary and unthinking — with Luke not caring at all if his insolence casts Ben in a negative light by association. Hux tilts his head when he waits for one of them to speak.

“Inconsistent heartbeats,” Ben offers, clearing his throat.

“Aye,” Luke agrees, finally flipping to the applicable pages in his notebook. “Fever episodes as well.”

“Fever episodes?” Hux echoes, clasping his hands behind his back as he turns to the fire. “Despite frigid skin?”

Miss Phasma crosses her arms and toes closer to the conversation, remaining separated from the men as Dameron dallies by the entry to the bedroom to watch Jessika sleep. She meets Ben’s gaze briefly again, quickly looking away when Luke responds casually,

“Rapid changes in temperature can strain one’s senses as the body works to balance and heal. Should become more infrequent after the first two days.”

“And what do you make of what Phasma’s girl said?” Hux presses with a raised brow.

“I pay no mind to the ramblings of an addled mind,” Luke sighs, as if it should be obvious. “A great many patients suffer illusions when struck by —”

“But they’ve shared one too,” Dameron interrupts earnestly, hat covering his chest with deference. “While we awaited your arrival. Both pointed to the window when Jessika spoke.”

Ben’s feet turn inward awkwardly as the mood shifts in the room. Miss Phasma frowns, casting a suspicious glare towards the bedroom when the Reverend asks, “What did she say?”

“Fly. Out there.”

Hux furrows his brows and brings a hand to his chin, turning his attention to Luke again. “You see many shared illusions before too, Goodman Skywalker?”

He hasn’t addressed Ben directly at all yet, which provides some amount of relief. Kaydel’s twitching limbs & lolling head as Jessika pointed to the window remain vivid in Ben’s memory… and while he isn’t sure if the women saw the same thing, he’s certain they responded to one another at the very least. He knows Luke will be contrary to spite the Reverend, too stubborn to cede any minor agreement to make his distaste known, as if all the missed services didn’t make it apparent already. Even though he was stunned to silence by the women’s eerie behavior too.

Luke’s lips twirl up with his patronizing smirk as he chuckles, “The power of suggestion is very strong, Reverend. Surely you know this better than us all.”

Hux nods curtly, reading the implication loud and clear. He turns to Ben with a gentler posture, “Goodman Solo, has Plutt’s daughter made any similar comments during her… fever episodes?”

There’s something dark in the way he asks that gives Ben pause. Relaying the details of Rose’s examination will surely raise more concerns, will certainly inspire the same rumors & suspicions of the Devil’s works whispering through the nearby towns. He pictures Rey mending a collar at Plutt’s long work table, peeking up from her needle when Hux slams his fist to open the door — But the image fills Ben with a dread that reminds him she appears more innocent in his imagination, without the sharp knowing grin she wore when baring her skin. His chest stings with a familiar guilt he’s felt in the Meeting-House many times before, the one that weighs his conscience when he fears his own propensity for transgression under a Divine Watch. It’s one of the few times Ben can recall wanting Luke to take over so he does not have to be the one to do this… to be the one bringing attention closer to Rey despite feeling it’s the right thing to do.

Ben looks over the Reverend’s shoulder to meet Miss Phasma’s widened eyes. “Her father says she leapt from her bed to fly from their window when her sister recited the Lord’s Prayer.”

Hux replies too quickly for Ben to volunteer anything more, “Three calls to flight. Speaking strangely or pacing as if their spirits have been wrested from their place.” He surveys each person in the room slowly as he speaks, settling on Miss Phasma when he continues, “These symptoms raise questions of great importance.”

Ben considers offering some clarification, that while Plutt’s tale suggests a call to flight, the women in the other room seemed drawn to something else instead. _Out there._ He recalls the owl’s unusual volume directly after the women withdrew, and wonders whether they were pointing to signal its arrival instead. 

But the rush of assumption drives the conversation quickly and Miss Phasma is whispering timidly before Ben has a chance, “Do you think there may be truth to her claim of a demon’s blessing?”

Hux joins Luke by the hearth, tilting his head as he squints into the flames. He takes on an air of grave warning when he directs his answer to Luke instead, “If there is, then their conditions will soon worsen. Their bodies cannot survive a sickened soul for too long.”

Ben can’t tell if Poe’s voice wavers with curiosity or disbelief, “A sickened soul?”

Luke sighs loudly and shakes his head, pivoting to face the Reverend when he rolls his eyes. “I have little doubt all three patients will recover in due time. We must provide them a chance to present their symptoms in the next few days, to give them an opportunity to heal.”

“Doctor, we must be vigilant during these troubling times.” A bubble pops on the surface of the uncovered stew. Hux meets Luke’s challenge with a mild yet assertive tone. “In spite of irregular attendance to services, I’m sure a man of your… position is aware of the evils sweeping closer to our Village?”

“Aye, something of it,” Luke admits. “You’ve succeeded in using fear to keep your name on the lips of all those in town.”

Ben is certain that Hux flashes a glare at him briefly before clearing his throat, carefully sidestepping Luke’s accusation. “Three witches were hanged not far from Salem, Goodman Skywalker. Any suggestions of the Devil’s work here must be taken very seriously —”

“Fits and fever dreams are hardly unusual, Reverend.” Luke emphasizes the title with a click of his tongue. “Using their conditions to bolster this rubbish will do nothing to heal their bodies, nor their souls. I have no doubt ‘twas all caused by something natural.” Both Dameron and Miss Phasma are aghast from Luke’s combative dismissal, but he is undeterred. There’s a beat when he drags his final words, putting his notebook back into his belt. “A shared environmental exposure.”

Hux’s features perk with a forced grin, baring the edges of his teeth when his hollow laugh fills the room. Dameron furrows his brows, cutting around Hux to place the cover back on the pot, but his interruption does little to quell the anxiety building in Ben’s chest. Miss Phasma rests her hand on the bedroom’s door frame, presumably checking to see if Kaydel still sleeps propped up against the wall. Ben shifts his jaw and stares to the floor, unable to meet anyone’s gaze as the Reverend inhales deeply through his nose.

“Hardly rubbish for the people of Beverly and elsewhere. I made an oath to keep this congregation safe, to guide them along the Lord’s path —” The Reverend’s fine leather gloves make a rustling sound when they wring behind his back. Ben keeps his eyes averted even as the man becomes more animated in his speech. “— to heal them, not unlike yourself, good Doctor. I trust that you will honor my request for any updates in their conditions?”

“Your request?” Luke repeats with a quirked brow.

“Lest you wish to have your fine for poor attendance assessed twice more.”

“Ah, that type of request.” Luke’s eyes glimmer mischievously. “One accompanying an invoice to your coffers.”

Hux shakes his head with a low chuckle, physically waving off Luke’s quip as he smiles to Miss Phasma. “Your prudence in these matters is appreciated. I thank you again for alerting me so quickly.”

Miss Phasma nods and gestures to the bedroom once more, “Perhaps we should move her back to her quarters for further observation?”

“Certainly,” Hux agrees, placing his hand on Dameron’s shoulder again. “And I thank you for watching guard. We will all be keeping the Goodwife in our prayers.”

“I will send word once she stirs again,” Dameron vows.

“Excellent.” Hux joins Miss Phasma’s side before turning back to address the room once more. “I will meet the Council tomorrow to propose sending word of these incidents to Deputy Governor Snoke. I’m sure they will be of great interest to the man.” He adjusts the brim of his hat once more. “He has a reputation for ferreting out the evils that lay hidden in the Colony’s towns.”

Ben and Luke remain still as the Reverend crosses the threshold, the floorboards creaking as he kneels by Kaydel’s side in the other room. Dameron nods to both men as he follows suit, flopping down next to Jessika and leaving Miss Phasma alone to watch them silently. She bites the inside of her cheek before scurrying away to join when the Reverend calls for her assistance.

Luke shrugs and adjusts his bag, acting like nothing has happened even though a lump wedges hard in Ben’s throat,

“Also too swept by his silver tongue to provide a tincture to your betrothed?”

Luke walks away, leaving Ben to watch his back wordlessly. Ben grinds his teeth to remind himself not to respond in kind, to keep his whirling internal inclinations for wrath in check. Quiet shuffling movements & hushed words come in muffled from the other room and Ben is unable to translate them into anything intelligible — The blood rushes in his ears too loudly to think of anything but the awkward position Luke has forced into place. His uncle doesn’t pause to look over his shoulder before going outside, smirking at his own deprecating humor as Ben glares at the opened door.

…

…

The day passes slowly without further incident. None of their other patients suffer afflictions that defy coherent explanation, besides the two boys who blamed the other for their brother’s broken leg. Ben doesn’t provide any commentary during their rounds unless prompted by Luke, and neither man discusses the morning’s events until the late evening when giving Ben’s mother Leia her nightly draught. She wags a bony finger to reprimand her brother’s impulsivity, reminding him of Ben’s engagement and her failing health with a heavy sigh,

“Like it or not, Hux holds a place of power in this town.” The other hand holding her empty cup starts to shake, encouraging diplomacy while their position is in flux. “And sometimes it’s best to mind your tongue. I have no doubt Goodman Phasma would listen carefully were the Reverend to sow doubt about our agreement.”

They continue to discuss Ben’s future like he’s not even there. Luke scoffs, “Take the word of a man who swept into our Village so shortly ago?”

“You’ve seen the way your charges heed his warnings.” Leia crosses her arms, but her fingers continue to tense. “Has a remarkable talent for keeping the Meeting-House engaged with his sermons. The threat of Divine punishment from the pulpit is one many people take seriously —”

“And were he a righteous man, I’d pay mind too.”

They debate and bicker throughout the evening as Ben closes the house, both going to rest early while he sits on his bedroll by the hearth. The fire casts the sitting room in a dimmed orange glow, making the quiet space seem peaceful despite the uneasiness keeping him awake. He questions his decision to repeat Plutt’s tale to the Reverend, almost certain that Luke would have remained tight-lipped out of spite. But Ben felt compelled to report it, unable to set aside his suspicion that something isn’t quite right despite its uncomfortable connection back to Rey. And he knows that he didn’t do it for the Village, or to contradict his uncle, but of his own selfish desire to avoid self-doubt — to avoid offering prayers at the Meeting-House with the guilt of concealment creeping his nerves. To not be accused of deception at a later date.

Yet he cannot ignore the remorse searing his muddied thoughts, unable to dismiss his contradicting self-accusations insisting he's betrayed Rey somehow. Several minutes pass as Ben listens to the crackling of the flames, soft and stream-like beneath the beastial snoring from the bedrooms. He scratches his nose and fidgets with his sleeping shirt, idly looking for a bit of loose string to unwind the hem, but Rey & her sisters mended it too well when he brought it to them months ago. He considers whether he should feel scared or wary instead of this distance from the speculations and accusations that will inevitably trickle through the town. The Reverend was so quick to credit the Devil's influence, but Ben cannot forget the desperation in her widened eyes when she asked for him to help her that morning.

He lays on his bedroll with his back to the hearth, wondering why she asked at all with the quiet powers she’s revealed to him. Surely a demon would be equipped for revenge on her own, would shudder & spit instead of nodding obediently during services — Ben steadies his breaths as he takes pains to avoid the word in his mind, but it’s not long before the efforts are useless. And as he shuts his eyes and his body sinks with sleep, he admits what he’s been thinking all along —

_And if she is a witch, does that really mean she’s evil?_

But no answer comes to him when his limbs grow heavy, when his ruminations trail off into the beginnings of dreamless sleep. Something stutters gently down his spine, thin and delicate like fingers, drifting away at his waist and coming up to brush his uncovered hair. The touch is comforting despite not knowing its source, and soothes his apprehension to remind him that he spoke under circumstances that were strained at best…

…It presses against his back and shivers softly, blurred and slightly chilled. He wraps his blanket tighter and shudders with a slow exhale, letting the form curl around him and hold him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and hope you're enjoying so far. Let me know what you think, your feedback is what keeps me motivated to finish :)
> 
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> 
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